


except sex (about power)

by seventeencrows



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, M/M, the myriad litany of daniel jacobi's kinks ft. warren kepler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeencrows/pseuds/seventeencrows
Summary: In the end, that's what Kepler does best; he makes you play the game so well that you'll think you're the one who came up with it in the first place.





	except sex (about power)

**Author's Note:**

> how about y’all catch these hands......literally digging me straight to hell i can’t believe i’ve written this and given it a pretentious as shit title as well no less
> 
> title is from the quote “everything in the world is about sex except sex. sex is about power.” by oscar wilde, which i find terribly fitting for these two assholes

The handcuffs end up on his desk with no warning, no note, nothing but Maxwell’s choked snort into her coffee when Jacobi opens the unassuming brown package. There’s no name on it, either, no return address or signature—like he doesn’t already know, like he can’t guess—

But Kepler? Kepler doesn't say a goddamn _word_ , doesn't so much as glance at the handcuffs that sit on the corner of Jacobi's desk for _weeks,_ just carries on with business as usual until Jacobi starts to wonder if they were really from him all.

There are other things to keep Jacobi’s attention, eventually—bigger things, brighter, more explodey things, like a new schematic acquired from a Goddard Futuristics competitor that was Jacobi’s alone to make a reality, or hustling tourists in bad Hawaiian shirts at pool and darts with Maxwell in the cheap-ass dive bars that dotted up and down the coast, or even crouching under Kepler’s desk with one hand palming his thigh and his lips on his cock while Rachel leans in the doorframe to discuss Cutter’s newest assignment for them, Kepler’s fingers tight in his hair. Jacobi’s got better things to keep him occupied than a pair of handcuffs mailed to him weeks ago that he’s about ready to chalk up, as he tells Maxwell over drinks and a cooking show one evening, to a particularly sad lab joke.

 

“So, the handcuffs,” Kepler starts, calm and casual like he's not two fingers deep in Jacobi—who, in turn, is trembling with the effort of not tipping over the glass of whiskey balanced on the curve of his spine. He groans, bites down on his fist and he’s trying, really, to focus on what Kepler’s saying, on the conversation they’re apparently having. Kepler smiles against Jacobi's spine, crooks and drags his fingers just to watch Jacobi’s hands scramble at the sheets.

“T-The—” He chokes on a gasp when Kepler drags the nails of his free hand down his ribs, “The handcuffs on my desk?”

Kepler hums a noncommittal response. “The very same.”

“What about the _-em—”_ Jacobi’s voice cracks on a cry as Kepler thrusts his fingers particularly hard and then stops, cruel and fucking _evil_ and waiting. Jacobi clears his throat and tries again. “What about them, sir?”

“Mmm,” Kepler says, slow and casually ruthless, “thoughts?”

The pace picks up again and there’s not much he can think about but the the heady pressure and the chill of the glass on his spine and the marks Kepler is biting into the back of his thighs and the quicksilver lightning that arcs across him when Kepler twists his fingers in _just right_ —but he tries, considers the cool weight of metal against his wrists, of _literally_ being pinned under Kepler’s gaze, of his hands behind his back or above his head while Kepler grins down at him. He shudders and hears the ice in the tumbler rattle. Kepler is silent but for the steady rhythm of skin and lube and slick, waiting for his answer. “I think that w-would be good, sir. Great, um, I think it would be g-great.” Jacobi runs a hand over his sweaty, embarrassed face. “I would be into it.”

“Into it?” Kepler murmurs, and oh fucking _hell_ , he’s going to make Jacobi explain it, isn’t he, going to make him tell Kepler exactly what he wants him to do to him.

Jacobi grits his teeth. “You t-tying me up? With the cuffs? I think that’s—oh, _fuck_ , sir, Kepler, right there, holy _shit—_ I want you to, _please,_ I want you to do it.”

The silence that follows is horrible, almost as bad as when Kepler finally speaks, when he hums and says, “If that’s what you’d like, Mr. Jacobi.” He lifts the glass to take a sip and slides another finger in alongside the other two, and Jacobi feels like he's failed a test, picked the wrong answer, but what the _hell_ else could Kepler have meant if not— _oh._ Oh _fuck_ , that's hot. Jacobi grinds against the sheets just as Kepler sets the glass back down, on the curve of his ass this time. It wobbles and Kepler pauses, one hand firm and grounding and warm against Jacobi’s side. “Daniel?” His fingers start to move again, slow and deep and steady.

“Y-Yes, sir. _Please.”_ He’s not sure anymore what he’s talking about—this here, Kepler’s fingers curling in him and his mouth on Jacobi’s shoulder blade, or the handcuffs, or _everything—_

Jacobi spills the whiskey when he comes, and savors every second of Kepler's wrath.

 

“This is, um,” Jacobi swallows, grins awkwardly. He’s not nervous at all, no, standing in Kepler’s bedroom with a pair of handcuffs dangling in his fist and Kepler a couple feet away, hands loosely clasped behind his back and head cocked to the side. “This is happening.”

Kepler’s lips curve up at the edges but he doesn’t budge. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Jacobi.” He watches Jacobi take one step forward, another, and he croons, “Where _would_ you like to start?”

That—oh, that is an _excellent_ question, one that makes Jacobi grimace and freeze. He clenches his fists, nearly jumps when the handcuffs rattle and suddenly remembers. He has to get the handcuffs _on_ Kepler first, right, yeah, and he realizes that he rather likes the picture Kepler paints right now, hands behind his back and already hard. When he takes another step forward it’s with purpose this time, dropping the cuffs to grab at the hem of Kepler’s shirt and yank it over his head, before leaning back to pull his own off too. He makes short work of Kepler’s jeans next and nearly trips stepping out of his own socks, and all the while Kepler doesn’t make a move, waits and watches and it makes a chill creep up and down Jacobi’s spine. Kepler only takes a liberty in running his hands over Jacobi’s back as he bends to grab the cuffs, but lets Jacobi wrap his fingers around his forearm and pull his hands behind him, doesn’t even flinch at the click of the cuffs around his wrists. Jacobi takes a moment to mold himself against Kepler’s back and leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses across his shoulders, sees the goosebumps in his wake. Then, suddenly bolder, he slides his arms around Kepler’s waist and slips his hand down his shorts to wrap around his erection—his grip is too loose to give him anything to grind against and he avoids the tip except to trail his finger across the slit, just to feel Kepler jerk against him.

By the time they’re face to face again, Kepler looks rather like he’s spent the last couple minutes poring over a particularly dry field report, but something in his eyes strikes flint and starts to catch. “Are you enjoying the view, Jacobi?”

Jacobi has enough wherewithal not to splutter, even as he feels his cheeks burn. He _is_ enjoying the view, thank you very much, but he thinks he might enjoy another one more. “On your knees, Colonel.”

Kepler arches an eyebrow and doesn’t budge. Jacobi has a flash of blinding panic set up shop in his nervous system—he fucked up, they haven’t even _started_ and he fucked up—and leave just as quickly when he reads the curve of Kepler’s mouth and the way he’s watching him like he’s filing it all away to analyze later. He’s watching Jacobi like a particularly interesting pawn on the chessboard, like he’s waiting for Jacobi to wise up to the game.

_Oh._

“On your knees,” Jacobi smirks, reaches out to trace a hand from Kepler’s jaw to his shoulder and press him down, “Warren.”

Watching Kepler sink to his knees makes Jacobi feel like everything is moving in slow motion, like his heart is about to crawl screaming out of his chest and take off down the hallway. Kepler doesn’t look away once as he kneels inches away from Jacobi’s crotch, looks more amused than he has any right to be. Jacobi’s running the show here, yeah, and he runs a hand through Kepler’s hair and taps his fingertips across one cheekbone and figures he ought to start acting like it.

“Take my pants off,” he says—orders, really, and he's so high on the fact that this is _happening_ that he doesn't remember Kepler's hands are cuffed behind his back until Kepler leans forward to curl his tongue around the button of his jeans and Jacobi can feel his breath against his stomach. He watches, rapt and not entirely certain he's not going to spontaneously combust as Kepler pulls down his zipper with his teeth and sucks a mark into Jacobi's hip before he bites at the waistband of his shorts. Jacobi helps him pull them down the rest of the way and one of his hands winds up tangled in Kepler's hair, cupping the back of his head. Kepler glances up, then, looks at him with pupils blown so wide Jacobi can see his own reflection in them.

Kepler takes him all the way down on the first go, swallows and _stays there_ as Jacobi folds over him like a switchblade and loses control of all his higher brain functions with a choked gasp. He hums around the dick in his mouth almost absently, like he’s not in it to make Jacobi flinch before pulling back and laving his tongue against the head. Jacobi's hands grip _tight_ but Kepler turns his attention to pressing open, wet kisses down to the base of Jacobi's dick and doesn't seem to mind much, just flattens his tongue and licks all the way back up the underside while Jacobi swears under his breath and wonders who, exactly, is in charge here.

Kepler is as merciless sucking dick as he is with everything else, taking him down to the hilt each time with a single-minded ferocity, teasing that spot just under the tip with his tongue on every upstroke. It’s _agonizing_ ; Kepler’s pace, the flashes of teeth, the way he meets Jacobi’s eyes occasionally, how he leans away to suck another bruise into his skin, and it’s all Jacobi can do to keep his grip from twisting too tight and rocking into Kepler’s mouth. It's so good—too good, and he finally digs his fingers into Kepler’s hair and pulls him off with a wet pop that would be disgusting if it wasn’t so fucking hot, sucks in a deep breath and waits until the urge to pull Kepler back in and come down his throat passes. Kepler, the vicious fucker, swallows hard and licks his lips, winks when he glances up.

Jacobi stumbles back a step at the bolt of _want_ that punches through him and the grip he has on Kepler’s hair must _hurt_ when he yanks him to his feet, but Kepler rises in one smooth motion, all shifting muscle and spit-slick lips. The handcuffs clink when Kepler rolls his shoulders and he’s looking too smug, too in-charge, so Jacobi takes a moment to palm at his erection through his shorts, to watch Kepler’s breath catch in his chest. He steps closer, presses himself against Kepler’s front and kisses a trail across his collarbone while he thinks of what the hell he’s going to do next. Tapping his fingers against Kepler’s hips he’s overwhelmed, suddenly, with all his _options._ He’s quickly realizing that all the things he’d thought Kepler would do to _him_ , hand down his sweats in the dead of night back when the handcuffs were just a vaguely embarrassing paperweight on the corner of his desk, he can do them all to Kepler, he has his _permission—_ he has more than his permission; Kepler just dropped to his knees with his hands cuffed behind his back and sucked him off with an enthusiasm Jacobi’s only ever seen devoted to particularly tricky interrogations and he’s standing patiently now, waiting for Jacobi to tell him what’s next.

His throat clicks when he opens his mouth and he snaps his jaw shut, swallows hard and tries again. Words still escape him on the second try, so he skims one hand up Kepler’s side to the back of his neck and grips hard, drags him into a kiss that’s brutal, knocked-together teeth and bitten lips and Jacobi can feel Kepler’s smirk against his lips when he licks into his mouth. His other hand on Kepler’s hip is digging in hard enough to bruise and Jacobi grinds against him once, twice, before he pulls back enough to snap, “Get on the bed.”

Kepler goes, sits on the very edge and arches an eyebrow as Jacobi casts around for the key, watching the curve of his ass as he fishes it out of Kepler’s jeans pocket. But he lets Jacobi move and shift him, just rubs his wrists for a moment before laying flat against the bed, rests his hands on Jacobi’s thighs when he straddles him but lets Jacobi cuff him to the headboard without complaint. Jacobi takes a deep breath, trails his hands down Kepler’s arms and across his chest, savors the moment and the view. He cups Kepler’s cheek, taking advantage of a stunt he’d never be allowed otherwise, thumb catching against his bottom lip, and he sucks a breath in through his teeth when Kepler opens his mouth to swipe his tongue against the pad of his finger. Jacobi indulges him for a moment before pulling it back and wiping it against Kepler’s jaw, and it’s so delightfully obscene and surprisingly filthy that he freezes for a moment, waiting for Kepler’s rebuke, his retaliation. Kepler rolls his hips instead, grinding against Jacobi where they’re flush together, and Jacobi remembers again he has bigger, better things to keep his attention.

That terribly smug look is back on Kepler’s face when Jacobi slides down his body to hook his fingers into Kepler’s shorts and Jacobi won’t lie, he’s a little worried, a little on-edge with how pliant, how _obedient_ Kepler’s been. He’s still waiting for the trap, the turned table, even as he pulls his underwear all the way off, even as he trails his hands up Kepler’s thighs and presses his fingers into the bruises already blooming against his hipbones. Kepler rolls his hips under him again, impatient, as Jacobi takes the time to kiss across his ribs and suck a bruise against the skin of his inner thigh, but finally, _finally,_ he slides his fingers up work Kepler open and it’s—wet? There’s no resistance when he slides a finger into Kepler, already slick and stretched and ready for him, and Jacobi has to clamp a hand around himself to stop from coming right then and there when he imagines Kepler on his knees in this bed, in his _office_ , fucking himself on his fingers—he groans and Kepler smirks, voice ruined. “Something the matter, Mr. Jacobi?”

Jacobi sinks one finger, two, three in anyway, all the way to the knuckle and curls them as he pulls out to watch Kepler go rigid, wraps his other hand around Kepler’s cock. Ducking down, he takes the tip in his mouth for a just second and pulls away with a couple hard strokes. “You’re killing the vibe.”

A chuckle, deep in his chest and warm. “Am I now?”

Jacobi doesn’t reply for a long second, mesmerized by the way Kepler’s thighs twitch as he fucks himself on Jacobi’s hand, hips rolling and feet flat on the sheets. When he comes back to himself he swats Kepler on the side. “Stop that,” he grumbles, ignores how Kepler laughs in favor of wrestling off his own boxers and jeans and flinging them somewhere over his shoulder along with Kepler’s. “You look good like this,” he says under his breath, ducking his head to trace a trail across Kepler’s ribs with his tongue and hope he didn’t hear him. He did, they both know so, but Jacobi spares him another hard stroke and then he takes himself in hand. He leans forward and Kepler tilts his hips up, ever-obliging, and Jacobi presses into him with a groan, face hidden against Kepler’s chest.

There’s a hush, a pause, and he thinks for a moment that he did something wrong, that any second now Kepler is going to pop out of those handcuffs like a magic trick and tell him how _disappointed he is, Mr. Jacobi—_ but instead Kepler arches his back and gasps, arms tight and straining against where the cuffs dig into his wrists. “Fuck, that's—” he grits his teeth, groans low in his throat, tightens a leg around Jacobi’s waist, “that's deep.”  
  
Jacobi grins, grinds his hips again, fucks into him slow enough that he gets to watch Kepler's eyelids flutter shut as he does it. It’s fucking intoxicating is what it is, the way Kepler wraps his legs around Jacobi's waist to pull him in harder, deeper, the way his wrists flex in the cuffs. Jacobi leans down to kiss him and punctuates it with a thrust, swallows the groan that follows before moving to kiss along his jaw, behind his ear, down the line of a scar across his chest. Kepler kisses him fit to make a fight out of it, tongue in his mouth and teeth tugging at his lip, but he grabs at Jacobi's hand when he reaches one up to wind their fingers together while he trails the other down Kepler's side to clutch at his thigh and thrust in harder, a steady pace counterpoint to how fast he _wants_ to go, to tear into Kepler as far as he'll let him. Instead he wraps a hand under Kepler's knee to sling his leg up over his shoulder and grins when Kepler chokes at the new angle.

He leans forward before he thinks better of it, sinks his teeth into Kepler's collarbone and sees his arms jerk out of the corner of his eye, hears the rattle of the cuffs as he sucks a mark right under the curve of bone—it’ll be well-hidden by any shirt Kepler might wear to work but Jacobi will _know its there_ , will know that he _put it there_ , that Kepler _let him—_

“Jacobi—Daniel,” Kepler muses, breathy and casual like Jacobi doesn't have one of his legs hooked over his shoulder, “I think you're going to be the death of me.”

Jacobi doesn’t even know how he’s using _full sentences_ right now, manages to grit out, “Only if you ask nicely,” between one thrust and the next, and then he’s coming moments later. Kepler’s leg slips out of his grip to fall back around his waist as he gasps against Kepler's mouth, kisses him sloppily and shudders. He's pressing him into the mattress, probably crushing him a little but Kepler doesn't grouse about it, kisses him back instead. Jacobi's going soft inside him but Kepler's legs stay cinched around his waist; he can still feel Kepler hot and hard between them. He reaches down to finish what he started, forehead pressed into the crook of Kepler’s neck, drowsy and coasting on an endorphin high better than watching even ammonium dichromate ignite. Kepler fucks into his hand, sharp and urgent, and Jacobi swipes his thumb across the head, twists his wrist on the upstroke. It’s only a matter of minutes before Kepler stills, breath warm against Jacobi’s temple, pulsing against his fingers. He wipes his hand on the sheets and lays it flat against Kepler's ribcage, imagines he can feel his heartbeat through blood and bone.

“Jacobi,” Kepler grumbles eventually, dropping his legs to the covers and shifting under Jacobi's drowsy bulk, “Are you planning to leave me like this?”

Jacobi unsticks his face from Kepler's chest and loses a second staring at his lips, bitten and red, instead of processing the words coming out of them. But then he groans, mumbles, “Shit, yeah, hang on—” Kepler winces when he slips out of him and Jacobi smooths his hands down Kepler's sides as an apology, levers himself away where their sweat-slick skin is stuck together and flops in the general direction of the nightstand. Smacking his hand around until his fingers connect with the cool metal of the key and already half-asleep, it takes longer than it should for Jacobi to get a cuff off one of Kepler’s wrists. Once his hand is free, Kepler takes the key from Jacobi and threads the handcuffs out from the headboard, and Jacobi watches as he sets the key aside, thumbs a latch on the side of the keyhole. He gapes as the clasp snaps open. Kepler meets his stunned expression with a grin, and Jacobi flounders. “Have you been able to get out this _entire time?”_

“Of course,” Kepler says. That’s _all_ he says, frowns likes he’s surprised he needs to explain it to Jacobi in the first place. “Did you think that I would let you handcuff me without a means of escape?”

“I—” Did he, really? Jacobi scrambles upright as Kepler shifts to sit and winds up in his lap for his trouble. Kepler's wrists are an angry red, will certainly bruise, and Jacobi wants to grab them, to trace the marks with his fingers and then with his mouth but—but it was a _game,_ a _trick—_ “You could've gotten out any time you wanted,” he says slowly, watches for the flicker across Kepler's face that means he's on the right track, “but you didn't. Because you trusted me?” Even as he says it he knows it can't be right; Kepler trusts him only insofar as he trusts anyone, only as far as the blast radius of his latest toy—

But Kepler smiles, slow and sweet and still razor-sharp, drags a hand up and down Jacobi's spine. “Something like that.”

_Motherfucker._ Here is his table turned, his twisted scheme, the price he paid for Kepler's addicting obedience. _“_ You wanted to see what I would do if I thought I could do anything I wanted.”

“Something like that.”

Jacobi flops dramatically back onto the sheets, muttering about how he didn't like mind games playing second fiddle to his sex. Kepler laughs, full-bodied and amused and it makes Jacobi flush even more than when Kepler curls along his back. “We both know that's a lie,” Kepler tell him, saying the words right into the back of Jacobi's neck. He's gone almost as soon as he says it, doesn’t linger for long, and cold air spreads across Jacobi's back as he watches Kepler pad off in the direction of the shower.

He drops his head back to the pillow when the door latches and really _thinks_ about it. Jacobi likes games he can win, games where he knows the rules before he starts, and more to the point he knows _Kepler,_ should have known there’s nothing he likes more than being in control, than having all the information, in playing the long con; he sent the cuffs _weeks_ ago, waited long enough for Jacobi to feel like it was all his idea, like he had any semblance of a grip on the steering wheel but—

But now he also knows the arch of his back and the curve of his smile and the way Kepler looks on his knees, and those are prizes for his hoard, things he’ll steal away and croon over in the dead of night because those, those weren’t part of a game, weren’t moves on the chessboard or a _strategic ploy—_ he knows Kepler at least as well as that. He's sure of it. He needs to be.

Something hot prickles in his chest, something he’s too scared to consider, to name aloud or even in the darkest parts of himself, so he—he doesn’t. When Kepler slides back into bed, warm and still damp, Jacobi wedges as close to him as the man will allow. Kepler sighs at the limbs slung across him but lets him, and it’s all Jacobi can really ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> look we never speak of this okay
> 
> many thanks to bri, who read this at two in the morning and decided it wasn't total garbage


End file.
